


satisfaction guaranteed

by Quillium



Series: Dr. Wayne AU [5]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Panic Attacks, it's me so obviously there's a, the other members of the batfam appear at various times but it's pretty tim-focused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27449794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillium/pseuds/Quillium
Summary: In truth, Tim sometimes thinks he’s the dumbest person on this stupid planet.(No, it’s not because he told Jason that he could eat ten mangos in one day when he was allergic to them it’s not.)OR: Tim, being tired, loving his family, and being comfortable.
Relationships: Stephanie Brown & Tim Drake
Series: Dr. Wayne AU [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1715896
Comments: 16
Kudos: 84





	satisfaction guaranteed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaffeineDammit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaffeineDammit/gifts), [goldkirk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldkirk/gifts).



> Checklist time! Have you: Slept 8 hours in a row? Drank water in the past half hour? Eaten something solid in the past three hours? If no to any of those, you cannot read this fic! Anywho, this fic was written in a much sleep deprived state (it's 4am weagoijs) but I hope y'all enjoy anyways.

Tim wakes to golden sun peeking in through the cracks in the room divider that Cass brought from Hong Kong, and he squints at the floor, where there are his clothes.

Hmm.

He can wear them, right? His floor is… clean. He and Steph clean their room every week. Tim is a messy person but living with Steph, he’s also a fairly clean person. So it’s fine, right?

Those clothes are fine.

Hrmmm.

He’s still tired.

For a moment, Tim contemplates going back to sleep.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to face the day. 

Life after moving in with Bruce is nothing short of a dream and while the sense of wonder at it all is reserved for rare, once-in-a-while days, Tim still thinks that while maybe this isn’t what he’d have dreamed of as his ideal life, it still is just that.

For a moment, Tim thinks about just rolling out of bed and hitting the floor.

It’s an efficient idea because, hear him out, he gets out of bed  _ and _ gets the adrenaline rush to wake him up properly!

But, upon reflecting on the unfortunate side-effect that it will probably hurt, Tim decides that is maybe not a good idea, and decides against it.

Because he is wise and… uh…

Anyways.

Steph isn’t around, having woken up ages ago and likely didn’t stay so that Tim could sleep well. She’s nice like that, though she’ll acknowledge her kindness in a way that’s so over-the-top that always makes Tim laugh.

Steph is comfortable like that.

He still. Hm. Doesn’t want to wake. His bed is so warm. So comfy. His eyes wouldn’t mind staying shut for another minute. Hour. Day. Hrmmm.

He rolls over and checks his phone. 

(His lockscreen is a photo of Steph clinging to Dick’s legs as Jason, off screen, shoots silly string in Dick’s face. 

It changes often--Tim loves photography, and Bruce had always said that Tim’s photos were too lovely an art to keep hidden. And over time--Tim’s come around and agreed with that.)

12:41. Barely afternoon. Hmm. That’s fine. He can sleep in more. He can…

But if he sleeps in more, then he’ll eat breakfast late, and then he won’t be as hungry when dinner rolls around, and Jason will do that thing where he stays up late even though he physically can _ not _ to bring Tim snacks, and Bruce will make that concerned face and…

Hnngh.

The things Tim does for his family. Pain. He has to wake up??? Before 1pm??? Ridiculous. Unbelievable.

Why doesn’t he just. Eat. And then go back to sleep.

Then Tim stands up and makes his bed and thinks,  _ no napping _ . 

_ Today’s the day that I get my sleep schedule back on track! _

Nevermind that he’s been saying that every day for the past year. This time he  _ means  _ it. He’s going to be like Jason. All, uh. Put together and stuff. And well-rested.

He believes in himself. Confidence. Today’s the day. For sure.

He squints at the clothes on the floor and thinks about it, for a moment. Then Tim makes the executive decision to get fresh clothes from the closet instead. To make Alfie proud.

And also because floor clothes don’t seem great to wear. 

The birds outside their window sing in the mornings, Tim knows, but he rarely hears them when he wakes. It’s too late into the day, and the birds are off doing whatever it is that they do in the afternoon.

Steph wakes to their chirping, he knows, but he’s not Steph. He thinks it might be nice to wake up to birdsong--or maybe it’d be an annoying distraction, having such sound right as soon as you wake up.

Well. He’ll sleep early tonight, wake early tomorrow, and find out! Hopefully. Maybe. Not probably but. Ah.

He opens the blinds and squints blearily when the room is bathed in light, then folds up the room divider and slides it between his desk and the wall. 

Then he picks up the clothes on the floor and puts them in the laundry basket because he knows that Steph tends to not pay attention to where she’s going and he doesn’t want her to slip on his clothes and fall on her head. Again.

Tim thinks, maybe, it would be nice if he could just. Be put in a grocery cart or something and get pushed everywhere.

No, wait. A  _ bed _ . 

But beds are best for sleeping. And it’d be kinda inconvenient to be pushed around in a bed. So a chair. That would be so cool if--

Wait, he’s thinking of a wheelchair.

And wheelchairs are inconvenient in their own way.

Tim heaves a great sigh and starts walking towards the Manor stairs. Such difficulty. Walking. Moving. Just to inconvenience him, he’s sure.

“If I had wheels for legs,” he thinks out loud, “Wouldn’t that be much better?”

And, of course,  _ that’s _ the moment that Damian appears by his side, scowling and squinting. “What nonsense are you chattering to yourself, Drake?” Damian demands. “Wheels for legs? Are you planning to amputate yourself?”

Tim squints at Damian, then at his legs, and says, “Well, I’ve already lost a fair amount of body parts, may as well go for gold.”

“I know that you’re joking,” Damian sniffs, haughtily, that way he does when he is, in fact, not sure.

Tim’s not gonna call him out on it, though. Tim knows what it’s like to have no clue what the other party means--heavens know that he's the poster boy for not understanding one’s peers.

“Did you have lunch yet?” Tim changes the subject.

Damian gives him an alarmed look, as though he really  _ is _ worried that Tim’s gonna try to replace his legs with wheels.

Time to play _ Does Damian actually think so lowly of him or is this one of those because-Damian-is-ten-and-also-he-was-raised-by-an-evil-murder-cult-that-wanted-to-posess-his-body things _ .

“I like my legs,” Tim says, in an attempt to be helpful.

Damian looks baffled. “I--your legs are scrawny.”

“Excuse you, I work out.”

Damian purses his lips.

“Sometimes. I run across the rooftops just fine, don’t I?”

“Somehow.”

“I want to be offended,” Tim sighs, “But I’m too tired.”

“Pathetic,” Damian sneers, which might actually mean  _ my standards are really high  _ (see: raised by evil murder cult), or it might mean  _ I don’t understand you at all _ or it might mean  _ please go to bed I’m begging you _ or all three at once.

It’s hard to tell with Damian. Mostly because he’s ten. Partially because of the murder cult.

“If your capabilities and functioning is at less than perfect, then you must take the time to rest well and make sure your body is being cultivated properly, so that you may maintain good health and function as efficiently and effectively as possible.”

Yeah, that’s Damians,  _ I care about you but it’s hard for me to say it in a normal way because I’ve never been taught to value myself or others purely for the sake of respecting human life, _ voice.

Tim ruffles Damian’s hair. “Thanks for looking out for me, kiddo. I appreciate it.”

Damian smiles a bit at him, and ducks his head away. 

Tim knows that Damian’s been working on phrasing things betters with Dick and Steph--because Steph spent a lot of their late nights up together researching this stuff and Dick tried to use Tim as a test subject for positive reinforcement which was a really weird week until Tim just got used to Dick randomly saying stuff like “wow Timmers! That’s such a great way of saying things!”.

Well. It’s still weird. It’s still really, really weird. But Tim got used to it. Because his family is ridiculous and crazy.

“I have not eaten lunch yet,” Damian says, hopefully, “But perhaps we can eat together.”

Tim nods and folds his hand into Damian’s on their way down the stairs. “Yeah, sure, kiddo, we can do that.”

__

It’s a common mistake that most people make, thinking that Tim Drake is a genius. That he’s naturally smart, or clever, or he was just born this way.

In truth, Tim sometimes thinks he’s the dumbest person on this stupid planet. 

(No, it’s not because he told Jason that he could eat ten mangos in one day when he was allergic to them it’s  _ not _ .)

It’s not really that he’s particularly clever. Well. He  _ is _ , but. It’s just that he’s had more opportunities and effort than others, that’s all.

But for Tim, growing up, it was weird to  _ not _ work. If he wasn’t doing homework, he was doing math, if he wasn’t doing math, he was analyzing literature, if he wasn’t analyzing literature, he was learning a language or practicing piano, or, or, or--

Figuring out Batman’s identity? Learning who Robin was? It wasn’t that Tim was exceptional. It was just that he stalked Batman a lot, and most people didn’t. Simple as that.

He put in more effort from the start because he was able to learn more from the start. Where most kids’ parents sat them in front of a TV and hid the remote, Tim’s parents sat him at a desk and had a tutor teach him linear algebra.

And that was how he grew up. That was life.

And when Bruce took him in--when he came to live at the Manor, became Bruce’s ward (and Bruce put adoption on the table and Tim doesn’t--Tim doesn’t--not  _ yet _ )--it’s different, you see.

It’s different because his mother would tell him how video games rotted childrens’ brains and now Tim plays Genshin Impact and Among Us with his family at least once a week.

It’s different because Tim used to tell himself  _ finish this work and then you can eat, finish this before your meal, you have to do it, just one more question _ and now if he tries to eat dinner later or skip it, Alfie will give him that sad disappointed look.

It’s different because Bruce  _ trusts _ Tim in a way that he’s never been trusted before, and because Bruce takes care of Tim in a way that he’s never--

Bruce is this: a curfew that says he cares, sitting across from Tim with a bowl of soup they both know Tim lied about eating earlier, Tim’s first time hearing an adult say  _ what do you want to do? I’ll listen to you and we’ll work together _ and having it be  _ true _ .

Bruce is a dad who pretends to be strict but if his rules are broken all he does is hum and say  _ I suppose it didn’t work, what should we change? _

And Tim didn’t  _ understand _ , for the longest time, and he still doesn’t, not really, but he… he’s gotten used to it, somehow. To Bruce.

And he doesn’t know how he feels about that, exactly, because this comfort, this peace, is alien, it’s new, and he feels as though it couldn’t  _ possibly _ last, except he knows in his head that it likely will, statistically speaking, if you know probability--

He likes it, he thinks. This new everyday, the new mundane, it’s bright and peaceful and kind and soft in a way he’s never quite known before, never quite seen before, and is only now beginning to understand a little.

He eats lunch with Damian and chats with his younger brother as he washes the dishes. 

Before, the housekeeper would just put them in the dishwasher, but in this family, cleaning up is something they do together, something Tim enjoys, because it means he can spend time with his family, talking to them and joking and drinking in their presence.

There’s a sense of belonging, here, that Tim never quite felt before.

So yes, Tim is bothered by the act of waking in the morning. He hates it, really, and if he could sleep every night for twelve hours, it would be a delight.

But living, moving, the everyday? No, it’s no bother. It’s a gift, he knows, and he’ll cherish it so long as he can.

__

He works on coding for the next few hours. 

His friends used to act as though it were some grand, impressive thing. As though being able to code made him smart, or clever somehow.

_ I tried coding _ , they’d say, scrunching up their noses _ , it was the hardest thing ever. I don’t know how you bear it _ .

And Tim has never understood, really, because coding is the easiest thing in the world, to him. And it wasn’t until he came here, to this home, that he met people who understood him--or at least, did their best to listen and  _ tried _ to understand.

Tim doesn’t think it was because his friends were lacking, no, not at all, but rather--

Well. He supposes this is what a family is. People who listen and try to understand you and do their best so that they’re always on your side.

The thought used to be jarring, painful. 

Tim would drown in all his inadequacies--all the ways and reasons that he was unworthy, that he did not deserve this kindness, this gentle love.

Tim would run through everything he had done for the day and his stomach would lurch as he thought  _ I must have tricked them, somehow _ .

As though you can trick someone into loving you just by trying to be kind.

But if you are  _ genuinely trying _ to be kind, to be good, Bruce tells him, it’s not a trick. That’s just you.

_ You aren’t defined by your instincts _ . That’s what Bruce would say, dragging his fingers through Tim’s hair, lulling him to sleep.  _ You aren’t defined by anything, really. But how you choose to react to something is far more important than what your first gut reaction was _ .

Now--and Tim will forever be in awe of this--this kindness, this acceptance, has turned to a norm for him.

It’s everyday, and  _ expected _ .

(He dreamed of this sort of thing, as a kid. Dreamed because--because it couldn’t be  _ real _ , no, how could it be?

How could something like this--

And it is, now. More than real, it’s become  _ normal _ . Ordinary. Everyday.

How could he  _ not _ be in awe?)

Jason finally convinced Damian and Duke to work with him on a choose-your-own-adventure visual novel type of thing, and of course Tim was the one who was roped into doing the coding for it.

He doesn’t really mind, though. Coding is neat, clean. 

With piano, he’d practice for hours and desperately hope he got it right. With math, you do it over and over until you can recite formulas in your sleep. With English, you have to think hard and remain open-minded while staying firm in your stance.

But coding, you either get your result or you don’t. And if you don’t get it, all you have to do is try again.

Tim says it’s refreshing.

Steph used to laugh at him and stick her feet under his stomach as she said,  _ of course  _ you _ would put such a positive spin on failure _ .

_ What does that mean? _ Tim would demand, pretending to be offended. With anyone else, it would hurt, and slide under his skin.  _ See _ , it would whisper,  _ even they think you’re a failure, even they agree you’re worth nothing _ .

With Steph, it was different.

It  _ is _ different. (But back then it was him and Steph. Then it was him and Steph and sometimes Jason. And then… now he has this giant family, full of people he loves, who are precious to him.)

And Steph would grin, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, and say,  _ because you have a good outlook on the world. You approach everything with a sense of wonder, and you’re always willing to work hard. You never complain _ .

And Tim would duck his head down and blush and try to bite down a smile but he’d always wonder to himself,  _ what is there to complain about _ ? Wasn’t he given enough?

Now… if he were to go back to that time, he probably still wouldn’t complain, because working hard, doing his best, that was what was  _ expected _ of him. 

That was the norm, that was the everyday, you work and work and you don’t relax because that’s what the average, normal people do, and you want to get ahead in life, don’t you, Tim?

But he would  _ understand _ .

Because now… because now getting ahead in life, for Tim, isn’t something that’s as important. 

Being an entrepreneur or getting a big fancy job or being the CEO of some grand company… Tim doesn’t need it. He doesn’t even know if he wants it.

He doesn’t  _ care _ anymore. Because he has his family, now, and that’s… it’s the most incredible thing in the world.

Money? A business? All well and good. 

But how can it compare to Steph humming to him to lull him to sleep, to Duke bringing him dinner when he hasn’t eaten for a while, to Alfie resting his hand on Tim’s shoulder when he stays up too late and asking softly,  _ would you like to take a walk with me, Master Timothy? _ without an ounce of judgement or pressure in his voice no matter Tim’s answer.

It can never compare, because if you do, things like success will always fall short. 

And endgame? A goal? Sure, Tim has those. But where before, he had nothing else besides those things, now he has more. So much more.

And what he has now… he wouldn’t give away for the world. 

_ What more is needed _ , Tim thinks sleepily as he rewrites his function again,  _ what could be better than this? _

Nothing. Tim has everything he needs--and maybe it wasn’t what he dreamed of, when he was younger, but that’s okay, because it’s even better, really.

__

Tim has his regularly scheduled panic attack at 4pm.

Okay, fine, that was a lie. He doesn’t schedule his panic attacks and it came out of nowhere and he didn’t  _ expect _ it and he hasn’t had one in  _ ages _ , where did this  _ come from _ .

It goes like this: Tim, in his and Steph’s room, alone (because Steph is making crepes with Jason and possibly Dick), and he’s humming to himself and thinks  _ hm, I should search up the lyrics for this _ and searches them up and the next thing he knows, he’s just.

Aware. That someone could hear him through the walls if he sings out loud.

Which is ridiculous, because Tim sings all the time? He didn’t at first but there’s only so long you can last with Dick singing pop and Jason adoring musicals and Steph somehow just knowing the lyrics to every single song known to man and…

The point is that he’s comfortable with singing. Or at least he was. He’s always associated it with safety, at least--it’s hard to be scared when you’re singing.

There’s probably some cool scientific explanation for that which. Tim might research. Maybe.

It’s so dumb, but here Tim is, kneeling right in his room, forehead against the closed door and praying nobody walks in on this, eyes closed and trying to remember how to breathe.

_ In, two, three, four, hold, two, three, four-- _

And he knows it’s supposed to help but all it does is feel suffocating and stupid. One more thing he can’t do. Breathe normally. Great.

It’s just…  _ ridiculous _ , he…

After what was likely only five minutes but felt like forever, Tim stares at the little crack beneath the door and tries to make a sound.

No go.

He tries to go through the alphabet.

No go.

And it’s so  _ stupid _ because Tim  _ knows _ it’s not going to be this way forever, that this is only temporary, that it’ll be okay but he just--

Some dumb, little part of him is scared. What if this happens again? What if it happens  _ more regularly _ ? He can’t--

Some small, tiny part of him thinks  _ isn’t this a good thing? You’ve always felt there’s value in silence--if you talk less, you’re far less likely to sound stupid or say something you’ll regret _ .

He hates that.  _ No _ , he thinks,  _ it’s not a good thing. It could never be _ .

He wonders where that vehemence came from. That certainty that his voice was important, somehow--that his words should be able to come comfortably.

Maybe it’s from Jason. Or Bruce, or Cass, or Dick, or--

It’s from this family, really.

And it clicks.

_ Ah _ , he thinks, numbly. Tim’s gotten  _ comfortable _ . And he’s never  _ been _ comfortable before--he’s never felt so definitively  _ safe _ .

When things seem perfect--that means something’s going wrong, right? Something  _ has _ to go wrong--things don’t  _ stay _ like this, peaceful, calm, good.

Something has to give. Perfection like this… it can’t  _ last _ . He’s never had it before, but he’s not a child, he knows… it’s like a dream. Eventually, you have to wake, eventually…

Stupidly, maybe, though, Tim really does believe it’s here to last. He really does think that… that he’ll be okay, no matter what, that he’ll have a good future, a happy ending, that it will all someone work out, maybe by hard work or magic but in the end…

Tim has never considered himself an optimist. But what else can you call yourself, when you believe so strongly in the best case scenario?

If only he can get his brain to agree with him on this.

_ It will be okay _ , Tim tells himself. His heart is still hammering in his chest. He’s pretty sure no matter how he tried, he couldn’t squeak out a single sound right now.

But it’s okay. It’s okay.

And it will be okay, it will. Tim will be okay--this happiness is here to last.

And what does it say, about Tim, or this family of his, that he truly does believe that?

__

He wants to talk about it with Bruce, but Bruce is at work, so Tim settles for Steph, who comes and beams at him and sits on the edge of the bed as Tim lies on his back and stares at the wall, even though Tim knows she’s completely concentrated on him.

Steph is good, comfortable, like that.

He doesn’t really tell her anything. They aren’t like that exactly--Steph and Tim don’t solve each other’s problems like that, usually.

It’s rare for them to talk about these things, discussions are kept light, it’s rare for one of them to unload on the other.

It’s okay, because being with Steph is enough. 

There’s no pressure, no fear, no pain. She’s easy, like that--she makes living, breathing, all this, feel easy, even though it’s really not. How could something worth having ever be  _ easy _ ?

Tim is a firm believer that anything worth having requires working for it. Nothing good comes without cost.

With Steph, the cost doesn’t feel like a cost. It just feels like life--acceptance is easy, living is easy, even working is easy, somehow.

That’s how Steph approaches life. Not as a hurdle or a mountain, but as a flower field for her to wander about without rush. As though she has all the time in the world. 

And it’s by Steph’s magic that she can make  _ Tim _ feel like that, too.

Tim eventually rolls over, wraps his arms around her stomach, and buries his face in her side. She’s wearing one of Jason’s hoodies, he knows, because her sleeves are rolled up like a kid’s, neatly folded rather than simply pushed up to her elbows.

Only Jason and Bruce have big enough sweaters that Steph does that. 

Bruce’s sweaters have all mostly been stolen by the kids so none of them are really Bruce’s anymore, and all that Bruce is left with is his formal clothes, which is all he wears  _ anyways _ so it doesn’t really  _ matter _ , see.

She presses the tips of her fingers to the back of his neck, the palm of her hand laying gently against his spine. 

“Do you know what it was?” she murmurs.

She’s asking about what set him off. Why he’s upset, why he’s so unbalanced, why Tim is initiating this.

“Yes,” he mumbles, face still pressed against her side.

He knows that she nods, because Tim and Steph have done this a thousand times, and she falls silent.

They stay there, a while, drinking in each other’s presence, and that’s enough, truly.

__

Dinner is warm. Jason made it, forcing Alfred to “rest” for a given definition (Alfred instead saw this as an opportunity to do other work with this new free time from not cooking,  _ of course _ ), so of course it’s delicious.

That’s not what Tim means, of course. Sure, the mashed potatoes are warm, the meat is hot, the rice isn’t cold, but he means his family. His people. The atmosphere. It’s warm, and Tim drinks it in greedily.

He feels back to normal. It’s amazing what his family can do to him, just by being there, that they can wash away his unsettled feelings so easily.

“Cheese,” Jason says, shovelling some onto Steph’s plate. “Since it seems like everyone else in this idiot family forgot they’re lactose intolerant.”

“It’s mild!” Dick shouts, “Let me have more!”

“Idiot,” Jason sniffs derisively, and that conversation ends just like that.

Damian and Cass focus on their food, occasionally swapping and communicating through facial expressions what they think of the meal. 

Tim thinks he could decipher it, if he were trying to and in the right mindset, but he doesn’t particularly care to because he’s pretty sure their entire conversation goes like so:

_ You took my mashed potato _

_ Isn’t it good? _

_ Thief _

_ There’s more in the bowl _

_ Then why didn’t you take it from there? _

_ I like this raspberry sauce _

_ Eh I’m meh about it _

_ How dare you _

and, much as Tim loves his siblings, the conversation is less than riveting from an outsider’s perspective.

Alfred and Bruce discuss various things. Tim thinks they’re holding three different conversations, probably, but he thinks it’s nice, too. He like those sorts of conversations--fast and intelligent and immature and sophisticated and so many contradictory things, really.

Jason’s good at those sorts of talks. He thinks it comes with a familiarity with someone that just allows you to move so seamlessly back and forth on topics and just understand.

After all, a conversation is nothing good if it’s not easy to follow--at least for both participants. TIm is also, of course, of the opinion that a conversation is too dull if it cannot baffle a random stranger off the side of the road.

Jason leans over and smiles at Tim and asks, “Sleepover tonight?”

“If Steph doesn’t mind.”

Jason grins, wide and sharp, “It was her idea.”

Tim tries to put up a front and sigh, but he laughs too much at the idea and can’t suppress the fond smile that’s creeping up his lips.

How is he supposed to fight down the warm glow that comes with family loving and caring for him?

You can’t. There’s no way. Just surrender.

Tim bumps his shoulder against Jason’s. “Thanks.”

Jason beams, proud of himself and just purely delighted to see Tim happy, and they share a laugh.

Yes, Tim is comfortable. And maybe part of him, in the back of his head, is afraid of this but… he doesn’t think it’s a bad thing, really.

__

Sleepovers with Jason are the best, because Jason always makes soft, chewy mochi and goes all out with gourmet hot chocolate and he reads them poetry and stories in a soft, cool voice that lulls Tim to sleep without much work.

He thinks it’s a lot of work for Jason, but he also knows that Jason loves doing it, so Tim’s not going to stop him anytime soon. He  _ loves _ this.

He knows that Jason and Steph, after he falls asleep, will grin at each other and paint each other’s nails and talk about various strange things.

He knows that they will very quickly fall asleep before their nails have properly dried (always, always), and he loves this, too, that this is something that has become somewhat normal to him, though definitely not an everyday thing.

It’s his life, this life, this room of his where Steph’s bed is right across from his, where the walls have a strange mix of posters, where sometimes family comes in and sleeps, too, because that’s just how it is.

Tim has dreamed of this comfort, this ease, this love. And he’s scared of losing it, sure, but only because it’s so precious to him, so perfect, so good.

“I’m grateful for that,” Bruce says weeks later, when Tim discusses it with him. 

Dick, who’s been shamelessly eavesdropping without even  _ pretending _ to do something else, leans over, kisses Tim’s forehead, and is laughing even as he pulls away. He’s bright like that. “Love you, Timmy.”

“I love you, too,” Tim says, and means it, every inch and fibre of his being.

He’s tired, somewhat exhausted, as he falls asleep that night--most nights.

But it’s not a bad thing, really. Because this is his home--so falling asleep here, finding comfort and rest here--it’s a given, really.

And he’s learning to accept that. 

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot properly like comment on everything in this fic bc I'm too sleepy which is my fault for posting at 4am awoegijs but like... if you want me to ramble, or expand on things, or you're just like "umm Quill you contradicted yourself like 20 times here" please feel free to tell me or ask me or hit me up on my tumblr (@quilliumwrites). Love y'all, take care of yourselves, yeah?


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